


two dead boys stood up to fight

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Orders, sword fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 21:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10475298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: 4x09 flashback fic, madegayerbecause flint looks like THAT while sparring, and silver is not actually Long John Silver. which is to say, he's only human.





	

**Author's Note:**

> also fulfilling my need to have a "flint and silver first talk about billy's Long John Silver shenanigans" scene, which we were robbed of
> 
> i've written a sword fight fic before (my first, in fact) and while that fic went from fighting to dancing to kissing (a mental connection i don't recall how or why), i decided i wanted to do something different besides kissing mid-fight. we'll see how well that turns out for me

* * *

 

The first day, Silver isn’t able to get more than a few strikes against Flint’s blade before steel taps his shoulder. He blames the crutch and the soft sand. He blames the way Flint nods each time they finish a bout, like Silver is the one who triumphed, like every time Silver raises his sword to keep going is in itself an accomplishment, which it kind of is.

The sun shifts in the empty sky as they spar, and Silver loses track of how much time has passed. They’re silent as they move, except for Flint’s measured instructions, his soft praise half-formed in his mouth, like he has to stop himself from uttering them fully, not knowing if Silver would appreciate it. Silver justs grunts in acknowledgement, because it’s all he’s really capable of at the moment. He truly doesn’t know if he appreciates it, the praise or the self-censorship.

All the bodies had been cleared from the beach and the forests. Their people had been given proper rites, even the most wretched and Godless of them, while the dead enemy had been disposed of without much grace, shoved into a single pit and set alight. Someone else -- not Silver -- had asked Flint if he wanted to do anything special with Hornigold’s body, but Flint had been silent at the suggestion. Silver couldn’t tell if he’d been trying to think of something, or if the notion itself unsettled him, remembering, perhaps, a bit too late, how they’d once been allied. Eventually, Flint just said, “Put him in with the rest.”

Silver has never waged a war before, but he knows well its effects. They always struck him as entirely chaotic and random, almost improvisational in its violence and cruelty. He hadn’t realized how much planning it all required. The days were just spent _talking_ , and it should have been a comfort to Silver. But each day that passed without action just seemed to further stretch the point where they might be done with all of this, where they all might finally rest, either in peace and prosperity, or in the fucking ground.

It was all of them conversing and plotting and arguing, Silver and Flint, Madi, her mother, some of her more skillful soldiers. Rackham and Bonny, Teach. Silver hadn’t been alone with Flint since that night before the battle. That night by the fire. So when he’d received word by a messenger to meet Flint alone by the cliffs, he’d made his way hastily from the camp, feeling at once anxious to go and eager to arrive. Even if all they would be doing is more _talking_.

So of course, here they are, barely speaking.

At one point, maybe two hours since they started, Flint sticks his sword in the ground so as to roll up his shirtsleeves. Suddenly, Silver is confronted with skin he hadn’t been prepared for, covered in as many freckles as there is sand on a beach. The exposure should have made Flint more susceptible to harm, but Silver has never felt more vulnerable.

“Do you need a break?” Flint asks, lowering his sword after besting Silver from only two moves. “Or some water?”

From the day they first met, such as it was, Silver had known too well the feeling of having Flint’s sole consideration on him. Or at least, he thought he had known. Now, he can look back and realize, before he’d only had a fraction of Flint’s attention on him, his mind constantly moving, constantly thinking of other things. Right now, it seems he has all of Flint. Even his thoughts on the war are about how Silver might survive it. Silver wants to tremble before that focus.

“No, I’m fine,” Silver says, because he _is._ He can avoid looking at Flint’s arms. They only belong to a sharp and lethal man, and they’re only wielding a sharp and lethal weapon, intent to attack. Nothing integral. “It’s an -- adjustment, using the crutch. I’m fine.”

He’s not fine. He wants to hate this. He’s always maintained that learning how to fight is a great way to find yourself in the middle of a fight. And if he’d had another tutor, he likely would have stopped this before it even began. But it’s Flint before him, so he’s not fine but he doesn’t hate this. Ever since he’d been made Quartermaster, and even before that, he could always _see_ Flint. And since that night by the fire, he’s been able to _understand_ him. But here, coupled with all that, and facing him in a physical fight, Silver feels like he truly _knows_ him.

“Would you like to sit for a moment?” Flint asks, gesturing to the side of the clearing. He’s a few paces away, but Silver can see clearly how pale his inner arm is in comparison to the rest of his skin, dotted with fewer freckles and light, golden hair. He can clearly see the veins of him, running up to the large, fleshy pad of his palm.

“Somehow, I can’t imagine a Redcoat offering me the same,” Silver says. He rolls his shoulders, determined to shake off his back whatever it is that’s whispering incessantly in his ear. The one trying to count the number of freckles. He lifts his sword. “Again?”

 

* * *

 

He feels ridiculous, the way he has to hop back against Flint’s onslaught, and it doesn't fade no matter how many days go by. Silver truly doesn’t feel the need to be prideful in front of Flint, but he’d also rather not look like an idiot. Still, he has to push it to the bottom of his mind. There’s so much else to pay attention to, the ground and his footing and the end of the crutch, the edge of the cliff, the fucking sword being swung at him, the man doing the swinging.

It’s good that Silver is supposed to be aware of Flint’s fighting style, because otherwise he’d be in trouble. Though he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be learning how to combat it, not marveling at it. He fully appreciates the skill it must take, to swing a sword with such speed and fury, only to still completely just at the right moment, the second it touches down on Silver’s shoulder. The amount of control that requires -- it’s breathtaking.

He’d thought, when he became Flint’s Quartermaster, when he became Flint’s friend and confidant, it would only require him to study Flint’s mind, his reasonings behind every manipulation and tactical maneuver. Now, when he is with Flint, Silver feels like he never stops learning.  

“You can and should use your environment to your advantage,” Flint says, going for Silver’s side. With one hand behind his back and a cool tone in his voice, he resembles nothing like the pirate captain Silver knows. He doesn’t look much like anything Silver has ever seen before. He looks new. “You should be aware at all times what could hinder you, and how that very thing can be used to hinder your opponent. For example --”

Flint twists, stepping far to Silver’s right, forcing Silver to change directions sharply to accommodate, and suddenly he is blind. The sun shines whitely right in his face and he flinches against it, unable to keep even one eye open. He’s already lowering his sword as Flint’s hits his shoulder.

“--sunlight is an excellent way to disarm or distract, so long as you’re not the one facing it.” Flint moves as he speaks, so Silver can see him again. Though he’d much rather not have to look at the smirking.

“Perhaps I should just leave the fighting for a rainy day,” Silver says. “Or I could take to carrying around a bag of sand. I can use it to blind all my opponents before taking them down.”

Flint’s smirk turns into a proper smile. “That’s not a very gentlemanly way of engaging in a fair fight.”

There’s nothing about this fight that’s fair, Silver doesn’t say. Any fight Silver has wouldn’t ever be fair, and besides, who gives a fuck if a war is being fought fairly? But Flint saying that, looking at him with that smile, like he’s another person entirely -- another person who hasn’t been rendered inhuman by society, by their actions, by their resulting tales of him. He’s another person here with Silver, one who thinks, even in jest, of things being _fair_ , and Silver isn’t about to drag that other man back by reminding him of all the ways this world is _not._

“Well, if I see a gentleman around here, I’ll be sure not to mention it to him,” Silver says instead with a huff, raising his sword to keep going.

Flint doesn’t. “Oh,” he says. “Your hair has -- come undone.”

Silver shifts on his crutch to feel the back of his head. The tie holding parts of it away from his face has come loose, likely when he’d jerked from Flint’s sudden sideways attack.

He scans the ground, but he can’t see where the tie went. “It’s fine,” he says, raising the sword again.

Flint, again, doesn’t. “Are you sure? It’s another distraction.”

Silver shakes his head, shifting his long hair behind his shoulders. He smiles at the way Flint blinks, like he’s the one staring at the sun. “ _I_ _’m_ not distracted, Captain.”

Flint doesn’t catch that right away, and when he does, he scowls, finally raising his sword. He comes at Silver without another word, but they’ve been at this for awhile and so Silver is ready for him. He’s still bouncing as he backs up, and his hair is flying around his face, making him feel even more ridiculous than before.

But for all Flint’s talk of watching your opponent’s sword and feet, of paying attention to your environment, of keeping yourself focused on the coming attack -- he never strays from watching Silver’s face, smiling just slightly, barely noticeable, his eyes warm with amusement, and maybe warm with something else.

 

* * *

 

Silver nearly turns around and heads back down the hill. He’s just reached the summit and Flint is standing there, looking out over the sea, in a fucking white shirt, and he nearly just. Goes back the way he came.

And Flint tried to lecture _him_ about fighting fairly.

The sun bounces off of him, everything looking lighter in the absence of color -- his skin, his eyes, his beard, the short hairs beginning to grow back on his head. He even has the gall to mention it, having caught Silver staring. “It’s too hot today for black,” he says.

It’s not just how he _looks_ wearing it. It’s a token, a memento, of who Flint used to be, as sure as anything. He looks almost like the man Silver first met, when his goals had been singular and monetary, and his rage had been short and unreserved. Now, he’s the perfect formation of the recent past and the distant future, the culmination of everything he has become to be standing here, facing a friend. Silver doesn’t like to think of himself, the man he was when he met that Flint, but God help him, he likes to be reminded of Flint that way.

He likes it a lot.

He removes his coat, laying it on a rock before sitting down to take off the boot. He thinks it might be juvenile, the way he continues to wear it even when he knows he’ll just be removing it when he arrives to the spot. He thinks it might mean something, that he’s only comfortable taking it off in front of Madi, and Flint.

Before rising, he cinches his belt a little tighter, for no other reason that, when he stands, Flint’s eyes linger a little too long on Silver’s hips, taking in his shape. It’s no white shirt, but it’ll have to do.

They’re a few rounds in, and Silver is getting better. He’s following Flint’s instructions, and now it’s just a matter of doing them faster. Over the weeks, Flint has grown more at ease with each daily lesson, and he stops being so hesitant to praise or comment on Silver’s technique.

“You do quite well at maintaining the flow of the fight,” Flint says after beating Silver again, stepping back to prepare for another. “But you must figure out how to gain control of that flow without conceding caution. If you move recklessly just to gain the upper hand, it’s essentially the same as losing it.”

“Thank you,” says Silver, “for the lesson on not behaving recklessly. Reminds me of the time Max tried to educate me on the benefits of staying celibate.”

Flint laughs a little, raises his sword, and _winks_.

Silver loses the next match in less than twenty seconds. He lasts a little while longer the next few, but not by much. Silver is pretty sure his skills have regressed past the point of what they were when they first started this. He’s surprised he’s even holding the sword correctly.

“You are still watching my eyes,” Flint says,  “which is a good way of getting yourself killed.”

Silver bites back the retort, that it's hardly his _fault_ , but saying that aloud might give voice to this _thing_ they’ve been dancing around for awhile now. This thing he can’t begin to understand, but knows he isn’t completely ready for. They have so many other concerns, and though it rests in the unknown, what this _is_ is still comfortable and good, and despite what others may think of him now, at his heart he’s still a coward. And all a coward can do is fear the unknown.

Of course, Flint has to ruin it by making the first step towards acknowledging it. Of course, the day he’s wearing white is the day he asks Silver where he came from. A creature born of his past, constantly thinking of the future, Flint it seems is unable to fully envision Silver there with him unless he becomes completely knowable, too.

Flint is too smart for that. If Silver became truly transparent to him, he knows what Flint would finally see -- absolutely nothing.

It shudders between his teeth, the truth grinding down beneath his molars until it becomes dust, and his whole self is shaking from the strain of clamping down. He’s suddenly exhausted, and he aches with it. Normally, he’s too alive in these afternoons with Flint for him to feel the tiredness until later in the evening. But he feels it now, feels it in every part of him, even the parts that were removed long ago.

Flint says he isn’t angry at him, and Silver believes it. Nor is Silver angry at Flint for asking. Silver knows who he is really angry at.

He sticks his sword in the sand, and he can’t look at Flint as he goes by. He can’t. His agony is acidic, burning away at his insides so it feels like the only thing holding him upright is the crutch. He knows he isn’t the first person to walk away from Flint and it kills him to do that to him now, but he has no choice. He has no other choice.

When he’s halfway down the hill, he stops and retches in the grass. Flint has no reason to be on that hilltop alone, but he hopes to a God he knows isn’t there, that he’ll have the forethought to give Silver a decent head start. He doesn’t know what might happen if Flint finds him like this, fingernails digging into the earth, body heaving out what little is left inside him.

Once everything has come up, Silver leans his forehead against a large, nearby rock. He tries to soak in its stillness. He longs to be a stone.

As he’s finally ready to stand, he realizes he left behind his iron leg. He’ll have to walk into camp on the crutch. Flint will have to carry it back down for him. His stomach jumps like he might heave again, and for a moment he’s too dizzy to stand. But eventually he does. Eventually, he always does, and he kicks dirt over the evidence of his sickness so Flint doesn’t see it.

After that, Flint doesn’t wear white again.

 

* * *

 

They’d had to start later in the day, so the sun is beginning to set behind the horizon by the time they finally stop to rest.

They sit on opposite sides of the clearing, resting against some boulders overlooking the sea. They’d been at it for weeks now but neither of them had the sense to bring nourishment or fresh water to drink.

Silver is trying to breathe right again, but not be too obvious about it. Yes, the crutch adds an additional struggle to the exercise, but he’s still a younger man than Flint, and he shouldn’t be trying to press his heart back into his ribcage, while Flint idles with some leaves of grass, looking completely fine.

“You seem distracted today,” Flint says, not sounding the least bit out of breath. He splits a blade of grass in two, and adds, “More so than usual.”

Which isn’t fair. Silver is entirely focused when he spars with Flint. He’s just not always focused on the actual sparring.

Flint had worn an older shirt today with a fraying front tie, that had fallen to pieces just as Silver feels he’d nearly gotten the upper hand. Suddenly, Flint’s chest had been exposed almost to the naval. It had been timed so perfectly, Silver half suspects Flint had planned it, except he couldn’t imagine how he might have achieved that. One moment, Silver had been furiously striking at Flint, and the next, he was faced with a shining collarbone and copper hair and a flushed chest, and Silver must have done _something_ in those moments but for the life of him he can’t remember what. He just knows Flint had to tap him a few times on the shoulder with his blade before he noticed.

Silver had removed his own shirt entirely in retaliation, claiming to feel overheated. Flint had just looked him up and down, grinned crookedly at his phrasing, and began the next move. He hadn’t even bothered to try and do up his shirt.

“Of course I’m distracted,” Silver says. He looks down at the crutch across his lap. Unknowingly, his fists had clenched tightly around the wood at the sound of Flint’s voice. He wants to throw it off the cliff. He forces himself to relax. “You heard Billy’s news today, same as I.”

Flint chuckles, glancing at him out the corner of his eye. “I thought, it being just the two of us here, you were beyond such pride as to have all your thoughts centered on yourself.”

“I’m not thinking about myself,” Silver responds. “I’m thinking of _Long John Silver._ You know better than anyone, that isn’t me.”

“No,” says Flint, “I suppose it isn’t.”

“It’s just fucking typical.” Silver shifts against the rock, moss itching his bare back, which only adds to his heightened anxiety. “Madi has been working hard to tether me to a place of light, and you have been here to keep me company in the parts of ourselves lying forever in the dark. I’d just --” He tosses the crutch to the side, out of his sight but not completely out of his reach. “ -- finally felt like I’d fucking found my _footing_ again, and Billy fucking Bones shows up to drag me right by into the full dark by the hairs.”

Flint is silent as first, and then he says softly, “Perhaps, if you were to cut it like mine…”

Silver startles, glancing at Flint with wide eyes as he takes in Flint’s smile.

“You’re joking about this,” Silver says in disbelief. “You know what Billy is trying to accomplish, trying to insinuate, and you’re joking.”

Flint shrugs, playing with the grass again. “I thought we were without pride here.”

“There’s always _wrath_ ,” Silver points out. “Envy, a host of other sins--” He stops himself before mentioning the other original one he’s clearly guilty of.

The quick, amused yet heated look Flint shoots him means he got it anyway.

“Long John Silver is a story, and I know of the danger inherent in stories left unchecked,” Flint allows. “But you are the man behind the story, and I’m not afraid of you.”

Truthfully, Silver can’t imagine a man out there Flint actually does fear. Silver wonders with something like dread if he really does think he’s invincible. He knows Flint fears no one because none of them are capable against him, but he really doesn’t fear Silver, because Silver wouldn’t ever hurt Flint. He _wouldn’t_ , not after everything, not now. Once he came to that realization on his own, he finally stopped taking offense at Flint’s assuredness.

“He’s going to expect me to lead,” Silver says.

“You can lead men,” Flint says, shrugging again. “You have now for ages.”

“I can lead men to _fortune_ , because I know what makes the most sense in obtaining it,” says Silver. “I just tell them what _I_ would do. He wants me to lead them into battle. What _I_ would do, is run in the other direction.”

“We both know that isn’t true,” and since they’re both sitting on a hilltop, preparing for war, Silver concedes the point. “And you have me for the more tactical issues. Unless you thought I’d take offense to your face being the face of this rebellion and refuse to help.”

It -- had crossed Silver’s mind.

“I truly don't know how you'd feel about it," Silver says honestly. "If this is a title we can bear together. It's still my name. It's still my voice. It might come to a point where I have to give _you_ orders, and you’d have to follow them in front of people.”

“If they’re my own orders, I fail to see the issue.”

“Spoken like a man who hasn’t followed someone else’s orders for a very long time.” Silver sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back. He feels chilled by the evening air on his exposed skin, and by this conversation. He’d expected Flint to oppose this completely, thus for him to be on Silver’s side about it, to understand what a spectacularly bad idea this all was. He hadn’t been prepared for Flint to encourage it. “This is a fiction, Captain, and fictions have a habit of getting grossly out of hand, sooner rather than later.”

“You think I’m so insubordinate, I couldn’t follow an order for the greater good of us all?”

“ _Yes._ ”

There’s an audible silence, and Silver sneaks a glance at Flint to see if he’s even bothering to think of a time he wasn’t disobedient. He isn’t. He’s staring out to sea again with a curious smile on his face.

“I can follow an order,” he finally says, “if it’s an order I can agree with.”

Silver rolls his eyes. “I’ve followed plenty of your orders I didn’t agree with.”

“You didn’t _like_ some of those orders,” Flint says. “Doesn’t always mean you disagree with the reasons behind them. Some orders are harder to carry out, but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

Silver disregards his first thought response, which is the start of a lengthy and volatile rant on Flint’s complete confidence that every move he made was the right one and no other alternatives could apply. His second response is just a long list of obscenities. His third response is, “Take it from me, Captain. There’s nothing ever easy or simple about following someone’s order. Particularly an order you question, given by someone you trust.”

“So, give me one,” Flint says.

Silver looks at him fully. He’s twisted his body to face Silver better, but remains seated on his side of the cliff. With the sun setting, Flint's eyes are no longer small, unreadable slits, but wide and serious. He looks serious, too.

“Are you kidding me?” Silver asks anyway, just in case.

“I’ve been educating you these past weeks on how to not die swiftly and assuredly,” Flint says. “It’s high time you returned the favor. Besides, as you say, I am out of practice with following orders, and I may not know _your_ history, but I feel it likely you have yet to dole out many in your lifetime. It would do well for you to practice, too, if you are to be our king.”

It’s the dig about his story that settles it for Silver. Flint had yet to bring it up again, since Silver had asked him not to, and even though he sounds casual about his request, Silver didn’t think he’d bring it up unless he was actually being earnest. Whatever game Flint is trying to play with him, he’ll indulge him. At least, it might make his point to Flint, that Long John Silver should never be standing between them.

“Toss me your sword,” Silver says.

Flint blinks. “Why?”

“Because it’s an apt a metaphor as any for the potential disbalance of power between us, should this story run rampant, and we’re both doing this to try and prove something.” Silver raises an eyebrow. “Do I need to repeat my _order_?”

Flint doesn’t respond with words. With a frown, he takes his sword from his side and throws it towards Silver, so it lands in a cloud of dirt beside his knee. Silver takes it and places it on the other side of him, beside his own sword.

“That’s an example of not exactly disagreeing with an order given, but still not much liking following it through,” Silver says. “It’s hard to tell the difference, in the moment.”

Slowly, minutely, Flint nods. He looks poised, waiting for Silver to speak again.

Silver tries to think of something simple, something not real, but his mind keeps wandering to only one place, and with his heart hammering in his throat, he says, “Come here.”

Flint huffs, like he’d been anticipating something more. He puts his hands under him and rolls onto his heels to stand.

“I didn’t say get up and walk to me,” Silver interrupts. “I’m fairly certain all I said was _come here_.”

Flint freezes, staring at him. Silver can see the exact moment he comprehends what Silver is saying, and Silver holds his breath to see if he’ll comply.

With a long exhale, Flint falls forward on his hands and makes his way over to him. There’s a slight redness on his cheeks, but otherwise his face is unreadable. His shirt hangs beneath him, still untied, so Silver can see all the way down to his shadowed stomach. Silver doesn’t know what he expected this to look like, if he thought Flint would look like a panther, stalking an unsuspecting prey, or if he’d look awkward and childlike, the fierce pirate brought low in supplication. Instead, he just looks like Captain Flint, a man he _knows_ , crawling towards him on his hands and knees.

It’s only a few paces, but it feels like a lifetime before Flint is in front of him. Closer up, Silver can see the twitch in his cheeks where he’s clenching, holding back from saying whatever it is he _wants_ to say. Silver is still too stunned he’s gotten this far to say anything right away, so they just look at each other, mere inches between them. Finally, Flint asks, voice rough, “And what was the point of this order?”

Silver swallows heavily. He sees Flint look down at his throat, then continue gazing at the rest of him. “Sometimes, you’ll be given orders that are neither liked nor agreed on, but that you’ll still find yourself carrying out. And you won’t exactly know why. It might be fear of what happens to you if you don’t. Or…”

“Or what?” Flint’s eyes flick back up to Silver’s.

“Or you’re just curious to see what will happen once you do.”

Flint’s smile grows slowly on his lips, but it reaches his eyes instantly. “And here I was, expecting you to just have me hopping on one foot,” he says, “or go and fetch you dinner.”

“Kiss me,” Silver says.

Flint’s whole face shifts in a second, going from amused to shocked as surely as if Silver had struck him. His eyes are wide, almost panicked, and he even draws back a little. He looks a little pale now, flush all but gone from his cheeks. “W-what?”

Silver licks his lips, noticing the way Flint notices. “Kiss me,” he says again.

“ _Why?_ ” Flint asks, which may be the closest Silver will get to ever seeing Flint beg.

Silver didn’t think he had the courage to ever say this to Flint’s face, but the fear of rejection, of dismantling all he’d achieved with Flint, had shrunk against the greater fear of what Flint might feel about Long John Silver. He has to show Flint that this can’t work, that he isn’t the one to rule, that he _doesn’t want this_ , and no matter how many times he’s said that to a pirate, this will be the first time one of them actually fucking listens. He doesn’t want to be Long John Silver. He’s not made for it.

So he says, “Because I _ordered_ you to.” And hopes to God Flint hears him.

Flint looks livid and confused, and Silver braces himself for the moment where Flint pulls back, stands up properly, and curses him for this. For using his _past_ to take advantage, for wrecking that trust to prove a point, which is that Silver isn’t a good enough man to not be corrupted by the thing Billy is trying to craft in his image. Silver braces himself for the moment Flint walks away.

Which means he isn’t prepared for Flint to lean forward, to gently graze his mouth against Silver’s. There’s no pressure behind it, just a soft drag against Silver’s bottom lip that has him closing his eyes on instinct.

Just as suddenly as Flint kissed him, he’s pulling back. He stays close though, so Silver is forced to see every inch of his misery and anger on his face. But Silver can also see how black his eyes are, can feel how they’re both trembling so faintly he can’t tell from whom the tremor originated.

“And what was the point of that order?” Flint asks quietly, his breath warming Silver’s lips.

Silver’s hands have curled around Flint’s shirtsleeves, and perhaps that’s the only reason why neither of them are moving. Flint’s fists are pressing down into the dirt on either side of Silver’s knees. He thinks they could be stuck that way for centuries, if neither one of them spoke.

Silver has always been a coward, and he’s always been a weak man. And his cowardice had Flint kissing him and he thought that’d been the end of it, but it turns out he doesn’t have nearly an ounce of strength required to have Flint distrust him again. “So you know what it feels like,” Silver rasps, “to not like the reasoning behind a given order, even if the action isn’t one you exactly oppose. Kiss me again.”

Flint shakes so hard now, Silver can feel it under his hands. He looks completely anguished as he asks again, “ _Why?_ ”

“Because I want you to,” Silver says. “Because I _want_ it.”

Flint takes a moment to really look at Silver, a moment that stretches on long enough for Silver to contemplate jumping off this cliff and solving his Long John Silver problem once and for all. But Flint must see something truthful in the agony Silver is feeling, because in an instant, he’s surging forward again, and Silver is there to meet him.

Whereas the first kiss had all the force behind it of a Doldrum breeze, this one strikes Silver with the might of a tidal wave. Flint’s lips mold perfectly to Silver’s, and Silver opens up for him, like a hull breaking under the pressure of the sea. His tongue moves cautiously into Silver’s open mouth, like he isn’t sure what he’d find there, and all Silver has is a thin, uncontrollable moan that he gives for Flint to swallow.

Flint grips Silver’s side as he tries to move closer, his other hand clutching at the back of his hair. Silver can feel dirt from his fingers pressing into his skin and he arches into it, wanting nothing more than to be covered in Flint’s earth. He can feel Flint start to pull back slightly, so he grips the side of Flint’s cheek, desperate to keep it going for as long as he can.

Eventually, Flint is able to pull back, although Silver doesn’t let go and neither does Flint. They stay close, foreheads touching, and Flint says against his lips, “Give me another order.”

Silver doesn’t even need to think about it. “Tell me to kiss you,” he says.

Flint doesn’t need to think about it, either. “Kiss me,” he says.

Silver does. He widens his legs so Flint can better crawl between them, and then Flint is practically lying down on top of him, bringing their chests flushed together. Silver finally takes this opportunity to slide his hand in Flint’s open shirt, smiling into Flint’s mouth at the way he groans.

Flint shifts, like he’s thinking about moving them sideways, but then he brushes against the swords sitting idly beside them. The clink of the metal freezes them both, and they both draw back instinctively. They’d managed to get this far into Silver’s training free of cuts and they aren’t about to break that streak.

They pant into each other, trapped in each other’s gaze. Silver’s fingers still trace delicately over Flint’s chest, his heart thumping up into his palm, and he can’t help but feel pleasure in that. Fighting Silver isn’t enough to get his heart racing, but kissing Silver seems to do the trick.

Flint smiles at him. Silver keeps close every time Flint has smiled at him, from the first, a threat with too much teeth, to the last, here and now, with his fingers still pressing into his ribs.

“So that would be an example, then,” Flint says, bringing his other hand back up to Silver’s neck, “of the ease in which one can follow an order that is both fully understood and agreed upon.”

“Uh,” says Silver. “I suppose so.”

“Good,” Flint says. He nips lightly at Silver’s bottom lip, making him gasp. “Then I don’t foresee us having any problems whatsoever, can you?”

All Silver can see are problems. That’s all he’s ever been able to see. So he closes his eyes and kisses Flint again, because he’s tired of looking at them. He has seen Flint smile countless times now, but he hadn't truly known the full power of one until he feels those lips curling against his.

He can taste the bitterness of adrenaline on his tongue, and he can't tell if it belongs to him or Flint. That's alright. Either way, they share it.

* * *

 


End file.
